


Celestial Bodies

by MalecCrazedAuthor



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, POV Yuri Plisetsky, Rivalry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-20 15:52:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9499091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalecCrazedAuthor/pseuds/MalecCrazedAuthor
Summary: I didn’t share the video on any of my social media accounts. It had pathetically few hits compared to videos featuring other skaters in the senior division, but I liked that. It felt like Katsuki wasmysecret, something I alone had discovered. I kept him to myself. While everyone else was busy pissing themselves with adoration for the Great Platinum Bimbo as he won his gazillionth medal, I was watching Japan’s rising star ascend a little more each year.He’d hit his zenith right as I came streaking onto the senior division scene like a rogue comet careening through the solar system, ready to fuck shit up. And he’d be perfectly poised for me to knock him out of orbit.It was going to beepic.=====Based on my massive meta over on Tumblr about how it's not Victor that Yurio fanbois for, it's Yuuri.Yurio hasplansfor the future of his skating career, but his intended nemesis Yuuri Katsuki doesn't seem to want to get with the program.





	1. Chapter 1

I’d just turned twelve years old the first time I saw Yuuri Katsuki.

I discovered him by accident, browsing through skating videos online. The video was on the channel of some junior division Thai skater training in Detroit, and Katsuki was apparently a rinkmate of his.

“This is my roommate and best friend, Yuuri Katsuki!” announced the person holding the camera, his voice ringing with Pollyanna-ish enthusiasm. “He’s working hard on a gorgeous program for his third year in the senior division, and this is totally going to be his season to make a splash in the Grand Prix series!”

Once I managed to stop watching (and rewatching) the video, I went digging. With a little research, I discovered Katsuki skated for Japan, and he was already twenty years old, but he’d won only a handful of medals at lower-level competitions.

Contrary to what the guy taking the video had said, that year did not turn out to be Katsuki’s year in the Grand Prix. He didn’t make it to the final. He only took bronze at one of the qualifying events. He was clearly the shit in Japan and one sportscaster, Morooka, was practically in love with him. On the international scene, however, Katsuki was gradually building a reputation as a solid skater, rather than a remarkable one.

Which was bullshit. Katsuki _wasn’t_ a mediocre skater. That’s what Chulanont (the guy from Thailand) had captured in his video, and what kept me coming back to that video over and over. Katsuki had been alone in the rink, except for his friend and maybe his coach, and he had been _killing_ it. His jumps were limited in variety and uncertain in execution, but he had a step sequence that would probably make even my overhyped bimbo of a rinkmate, Victor Nikiforov, pop a boner.

Assuming, of course, that airhead hadn’t somehow managed to forget where he left his dick.

I didn’t share the video on any of my social media accounts. It had pathetically few hits compared to videos featuring other skaters in the senior division, but I liked that. It felt like Katsuki was _my_ secret, something I alone had discovered. I kept him to myself. While everyone else was busy pissing themselves with adoration for the Great Platinum Bimbo as he won his gazillionth medal, I was watching Japan’s rising star ascend a little more each year.

He’d hit his zenith right as I came streaking onto the senior division scene like a rogue comet careening through the solar system ready to fuck shit up. And he’d be perfectly poised for me to knock him out of orbit.

It was going to be _epic_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had it all planned out, playing it over in my brain like a movie on autoloop. Katsuki was going to score a medal to match the gold I’d won in Juniors and after that, I was going to march up to him and throw down my gauntlet in preparation for my senior debut season. I even had Victor Nikiforov on the hook to choreograph a routine for me. Then, with Nikiforov retiring any day now and neatly out of the way, Katsuki and I would spend the next three--hell, four? maybe even five?--years gunning for each other’s place on the podium. Then he’d get too old and retire, leaving me only twenty years old at most, the undisputed star of men’s singles for at least another six years.
> 
> At least, that was how it was _supposed_ to go.
> 
> Instead, Katsuki choked.
> 
> =====
> 
> Finally, Yurio gets to meet his intended arch-rival. But nothing goes according to plan.

“ _As for Yuuri Katsuki, who earned a place in the Grand Prix for the first time…_ ”

I was almost fifteen when I finally met Yuuri Katsuki face-to-face.

The experience was seriously unimpressive.

For nearly three years, I’d been looking forward to this. At last he’d made it to the Grand Prix final, and he’d done so the year I was kicking ass for my final season in the juniors. The skating press was now taking note of Katsuki, calling him a late bloomer, and that was just fine by me. Late bloomer he might be, but he was blossoming at just the right time.

I had it all planned out, playing it over in my brain like a movie on autoloop. Katsuki was going to score a medal to match the gold I’d won in Juniors and after that, I was going to march up to him and throw down my gauntlet in preparation for my senior debut season. I even had Victor Nikiforov on the hook to choreograph a routine for me. Then, with Nikiforov retiring any day now and neatly out of the way, Katsuki and I would spend the next three--hell, four? maybe even five?--years gunning for each other’s place on the podium. Then he’d get too old and retire, leaving me only twenty years old at most, the undisputed star of men’s singles for at least another five or six years.

At least, that was how it was _supposed_ to go.

Instead, Katsuki choked.

He _choked_.

He’d been doing great all through the series. Not perfect, but well enough to get to the final and certainly well enough to place. And his short program was solid enough to put him on the podium if he could just pull off the free skate.

But he. fucking. _choked_.

No one could make sense of it. Not the other skaters or coaches or commentators. This was supposed to be his year to really shine. It would have been great if he could have knocked Victor off the top of the podium, but even silver or bronze would be acceptable. What the hell had happened?

“Didn’t skate like his usual self today,” I heard the commentators say.

_You fucking think?_

Katsuki was twenty-three years old now, damn it. He didn’t have enough time left in his career to be dropping the ball like that. Not if he wanted to keep pace with me. And what the hell was with his costumes? They were snug in all the wrong places, as if he’d packed on some weight since they’d been tailored for him.

I’m not ashamed to admit I stalked him around the arena after that, trying to figure out what was up with him. Was he sick? Injured? Fuck. What was I going to do if my future nemesis wasn’t at the top of his game where I needed him to be?

As much as I hated to credit Nikiforov with anything, he had a point about the importance of inspiration and how if you didn’t have any, you might as well be dead. For three years, this had been _my_ inspiration. I was going to get to the senior division and pit myself against the belatedly ascendant Japanese ace skater. It was going to be a rivalry that would go down in skating history.

I was going to be a star skater because my family needed me to be successful. They depended on me, on the money my sponsors would shower on us.

Becoming Katsuki’s arch-rival, however? Proving that I could bring life to the music and dance on the ice even better than he could?

That part was for _me_.

But it wasn’t going to fucking _work_ if that loser didn’t get. his. shit. together.

Maybe he just needed a kick in the ass. I’d bet everyone around him was as sickeningly sweet and indulgent as his rinkmate Chulanont, the Thai guy with the A+ selfie game who kept plastering his beaming face all over Instagram and Twitter and YouTube. Katsuki’s coach, Cialdini, didn’t strike me as a real hardass, either.

Okay, fine. I could do that. I’d been getting my balls busted by Yakov for almost five years now, so I had learned from the best. Maybe I wouldn’t get to make the public challenge I’d fantasized about issuing to the new reigning champion, but I could still throw down enough to light a fire under his chubby ass.

But that chubby ass ducked into a toilet just as I was about to pounce.

 _Fuck_.

I slumped against the wall. No way was I issuing my challenge while he had his dick out at the urinal. I’d wait.

And wait.

And. fucking. wait.

Okay, seriously, what the fuck? If that idiot was in there doing something lame like sticking his fingers down his throat the way Georgi and a few of the girls sometimes did, I was going to make the ass-kicking I’d planned for him literal instead of metaphorical.

But no. It was worse. Much worse.

He was fucking _crying_.

No way. I was _not_ putting up with this shit.

What, did he think he could make me feel _sorry_ for him? Did he think I’d come in and give him hugs and pats on the back and tell him everything would be okay, the way his Thai buddy probably would. Would I wipe his nose like his big softie of a coach and take him out for fucking ice cream or something?

Never. If I could leave home and my grandpa behind when I was ten years old to train with a grumpy old bastard like Yakov, if I could take it on my shoulders to get the money we needed to take care of my little brothers and sisters and pay for my mom’s treatments, and do it all without once breaking down and crying like a big sobby baby, Katsuki could suck it up and accept that he’d fallen on his ass in front of the whole world.

No way was I going to be rivals with some loser who got all weepy every time he fucked up a jump. He shouldn’t even been fucking up his jumps; that was the entire goddamned point.

Rigid with rage, I slammed my foot against the stall door, ready to kick it down if that’s what it took to shut up his sniveling and get him to come out and face me.

When he timidly pulled the door open, I channeled my inner Yakov and I smacked him upside his stupid, blotchy face with a variation on the “if you can’t get your shit together, maybe you should just quit” line. The one he used every time he wanted to piss me off enough to toe the line.

“Incompetents like you should just quit already. Moron!”

Yakov would never have to know I’d borrowed his favorite riff.

I stormed off, because fuck him if Katsuki thought I cared enough to stick around and see if my words had any impact. Even if I _could_ see the bathroom door from where I stopped and propped up the wall, that didn’t mean I was skulking there waiting to see how long it would take him to pull up his big boy pants and come charging out ready to do battle again.

Then Nikiforov had to come bopping along with his stupid medal and stupid “I’m so friendly with everyone” smile and drag me off because Yakov was waiting. Oh, and by the way, my step sequence could use some work.

Yeah, like I wasn’t already really fucking aware of that after watching Katsuki skate.

Asshole. As if I wanted advice from a soon-to-be has-been with one foot already on the putting green of the retirement community. Of course telling Nikiforov to mind his own business got me yelled at by Yakov. I tuned him out, because Katsuki was there now, across the lobby, staring at us. I gave him my best scowl, daring him to toss my shit-talking in the bathroom back in my face. Right there in front of Morooka, too. It was almost as good as the challenge I’d originally planned to throw down, laying the groundwork for our historic rivalry next season. Until…

“A commemorative photo?”

...Victor offered him an autograph, like Katsuki was some swooning fangirl instead of a fellow competitor. What, did he actually _not see_ Celestino Cialdini standing there a couple feet away, waiting for Katsuki, or was he just too airheaded to put two and two together?

What a fucking egomaniac. I was tempted to whack him on the back of the head with the duffle I carried my skates in.

I froze, waiting to see what Katsuki would do. He didn’t look pissed off or insulted like he should. He didn’t look ready to throw down with me, and he sure as hell didn’t look ready to tell Nikiforov to get over himself. Instead, he still looked like someone had run over his kitten with a car.

What the fuck was _up_ with this guy?

 _Retreat_. That’s the only word that could describe the way he hunched his shoulders, ducked his head, and slunk away.

Fucking Victor. He just had to step on our moment and make it all about him.

Fine. Katsuki would be there at the banquet tonight. We’d kick this thing off then.

=====

It was satisfying to see Nikiforov’s face when Katsuki walked into the banquet with his coach. The slowly dawning horror of the _faux pas_ he’d committed earlier that day would have had me laughing out loud, except that I was too busy being frustrated by Katsuki’s persistent hangdog expression.

Seriously, what was it going to take to get this guy to show the kind of life he’d had in that video that had first caught my eye? When Yakov yelled at me the way I’d yelled at Katsuki in the restroom, I yelled back. Then I got off my ass and showed him I could do whatever it was he was saying I couldn’t do. But while his coach chatted up sponsors, Katsuki just lurked in the corner looking like he’d just been diagnosed with some rare and inoperable cancer.

Oh, shit. _Had_ he been diagnosed with cancer? Was that why he’d skated so badly?

Who the hell was going to be my arch-rival if he died?

A waiter offered him him a flute of champagne and a come-fuck-me-in-a-broom-closet gaze. Obviously the waiter was horny or desperate or had a thing for skaters, because he gave the same look to Victor every time he passed by, and to Giacometti. Victor had responded with a polite, I-appreciate-your-attention-but-no-thanks smile. Giacometti appeared to still be thinking it over.

As for Katsuki, he took the waiter up on the booze, but ignored the invitation on the first pass the guy made with his tray. And the second. And the third. I lost count after that, but by then Katsuki had finally stopped looking like he had only attended the banquet to deliver the ransom that would free his beloved baby sister from her mob-affiliated abductors.

It was time to make my move.

“If you’re looking for your pride, pig, it’s not at the bottom of that glass. But keep drinking. Eventually you’ll have your head in a trash bin. I’m sure you’ll find it there.”

His eyes were red and slightly bleary behind his glasses and it seemed to take a moment for him to focus on me.

“You’re the Russian punk,” he slurred. I smirked. If he thought that epithet was going to hurt my feelings, he’d quickly learn otherwise. So I had a reputation. I owned it.

“Better that than a pig who can’t land jumps I was nailing before I even moved up to juniors,” I sneered.

Katsuki snorted unattractively, but finally there was a little bit of attitude in the way he looked at me. Thank God. This thing was finally about to take off.

He nodded in slow and exaggerated agreement. “Oh, sure. You’re totally state-of-the-art.” He made jerky robot arms in my direction. “It’s a shame no one remembered to program you to do something between those precision jumps. Who choreographed your routine, Bender?”

Oh no he fucking _didn’t_!

My body went ice-cold, then blazing hot. My face felt like it was about to spontaneously combust. I didn’t even dare look around to see who’d overheard that dig. Sure, I’d started the trash-talking first but I’d never in a million years expected quiet little Katsuki to be so damn vicious right out of the gate. Nor had I expected him to hone in so precisely on my weak spot.

I may have underestimated the amount of champagne he’d tossed back already. And he’d thrown me so completely off my stride that I had to splutter and huff while I grasped around for a comeback.

“Says the loser who can’t even walk a straight line!” I finally blurted.

“I don’t need to walk a straight line to dance circles around you, R2D2.” He spun, doing some subtle and strangely elegant popping and locking, and ended the move by gliding away from me in a perfect moonwalk.

Burning with rage and humiliation, I spun on my heel, striding toward the small dance floor. “Bring it on, piggy!”

Katsuki followed, loosening his tie and dropping his suit coat onto a chair. Luckily our coaches were too busy schmoozing sponsors to notice anything. Katsuki took up the beat like he the music was being piped directly into his skeleton.

Who the hell had taught b-boying to a retiring, bespectacled Japanese nobody?

It was infuriating how far outclassed I was. Except for ballet essentials, all I had was a little jive training. Which only made me dance harder, because as drunk as he was, if I just hung in there long enough he’d either pass out or start puking.

Instead, after several songs, we’d attracted a crowd of spectators and my legs were shaking with exhaustion, my knees ready to buckle.

“Do I get to dance with the winner?” Giacometti purred, improvising a tacky bump and grind with Katsuki. Who fucking fell into it effortlessly, because of course he would. The pig had gone from being a sullen drunk to the life of the party, his eyes sparkling and a stupid, huge smile on his stupid, flushed face.

Giacometti looked ready to make some mischief. “Such a shame. You really should see me pole-dancing.”

Katsuki giggled. _Giggled_. “I studied that too. _Shh_. Don’t tell anyone. It’s my secret.”

“My lips are sealed, Yuuri.” Giacometti slid about a half-dozen more U’s into the name than probably should have been there, then grabbed Katsuki with one hand and one of the support posts that were scattered through the ballroom with another, pulling him into a few rotations. “Hmph. It doesn’t revolve.”

“We can make it work!” Katsuki hooked one leg around it and started to shimmy up, only to slide back down gracelessly. “Oops. Can’t get trax-tracked-traction without skin!”

His trousers went sailing over to join his suit coat so fast no one had a chance to stop him. He was halfway up the pole, gripping it with well-muscled thighs, before Giacometti had even shed his shirt.

Half of me wanted to see him fall on his face and break his neck, and the other half of me couldn’t help but admire how very _good_ he was. Even with his legs wrapped around a pole, his form was elegant, a solid base of ballet and lyrical dance training that far eclipsed mine shining through in the graceful lines his limbs made. No wonder he couldn’t master all his jumps. He was too busy studying every form of dance known to mankind. He could have been the fucking _danseur noble_ with any ballet company on the planet.

Really, as good as he was, he was a little wasted on skating. What drove him challenge himself on the ice when dance was clearly where the bulk of his talent lay?

I was too busy pondering that question to pay much attention as Giacometti mounted the pole in nothing his skimpy bikini briefs. Katsuki lost his shirt while Giacometti flashed his goods to the whole ballroom, and sure enough there was the slightest bit of pudge rounding his abdomen. Nonetheless, somewhere behind me I heard that randy waiter drop his tray. Whatever Katsuki’s faults on the ice, endurance was not one of them. He climbed the pole again, barely winded as he and Giacometti wound and slithered around each other.

Eventually Giacometti had to yield, declaring Katsuki the winner. Katsuki looked a little lost as they dismounted the pole, as if he was just starting to realize he was standing in the middle of the crowd in his underwear, and he wasn’t quite sure how he’d gotten into that situation.

“Here, Yuuri.” Victor appeared with an armful of poorly tailored suit. “Let’s get you dressed.”

His voice sounded...strange. Gentle. Kind. Not laughing at Katsuki with the thoughtless humor Victor usually flung around. It was weird. If there was ever a time to laugh, it was now when the pig had just made a drunken spectacle of himself in the middle of a banquet. Instead, Nikiforov was almost solicitous.

I glared as he fastened buttons Katsuki’s fingers were too clumsy to manipulate. _If you cared so much about his dignity, maybe you should have stopped him before he stripped off his clothes_!

“What--who am I supposed to dance against now?” Katsuki asked when he was mostly decent again.

“You haven’t danced with me,” Victor said, his tone filled with amusement, but not the cruel or careless kind. “Don’t I get a turn?”

Katsuki grabbed his hand and spun him out in a turn so far even the legendary Victor Nikiforov almost stumbled, and they were off.

 _Paso doble_. Of course. He had to know fucking ballroom as well. They fell into the dance as if they’d been rehearsing it for months, Katsuki leading in the traditionally male role of the matador and Victor playing the feminine part of the cape.

“Victor!” Katsuki flung his arms around Nikiforov when the music wound down, his body taking up the rhythm of the next song as if it functioned independent of his brain. He shimmied and ground against Victor, hips moving as relentlessly as the tide.

“After this season ends, my family runs a hot springs resort, so please come! If I win this dance-off, you’ll become my coach, right?”

He gave Nikiforov the most adoring, besotted, hero-worshipping look I’d ever had the agony of witnessing. It made me want to puke. It was even more disgusting than those cat-ear wearing twits who followed me around at competitions.

I clenched my fists, trying to resist the urge to break a fucking champagne bottle over Katsuki’s stupid head.

Nikiforov. All along it had been all about fucking Nikiforov.

 _I_ was the one who’d danced against him first, but Katsuki didn’t even notice me standing there. _Me_ , the one who had kicked him in the ass and gotten him moving instead of sulking and crying in bathrooms. The one who was going to be competing against him for years after Victor faded into obscurity.

 _I_ was his rival. But just like every other star-struck idiot Victor had ever winked at, Katsuki didn’t care about anyone but _him_.

Victor was why he was on the ice instead of dancing on a stage.

I should have fucking known.

He clung tighter to Victor, half snuggling against him, and half hanging off him.

“Be my coach, Victor!” he pleaded drunkenly.

Lame. _Pathetic_. I’d expected better of him than to follow the herd of Nikiforov’s sycophants. Idiot.

I stormed up to my room just as Katsuki’s useless coach finally noticed he needed to break things up, because otherwise I was going to punch Victor Nikiforov right in the face.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was bad enough he forgot his promise to me, but to leave Russia and go coach my _rival_? That was just fucking disloyal. Nikiforov was _my_ rinkmate, _my_ countryman. _I_ should be his priority, not Katsuki.
> 
> Also, Victor would make him a better skater. Of course he would. And that was a good thing, but when he came back from this break, the skating world would be all about their story. The drama. Former coach and student now competing against one another.
> 
> Katsuki was mine. _My_ competition. _My_ rival.
> 
>  _I_ was the one who saw Katsuki first, saw both his flaws and his potential. While Nikiforov had been wallowing in the adoration of his public, I was the one who had tracked Katsuki down at the Grand Prix and kicked him in the ass to get him moving again. Back when Katsuki had barely been a blip on the international skating scene, I’d singled him out as the one I had to beat.
> 
> And _Nikiforov_ was going to get the credit for fixing his skating. No one would know I’d had anything to do with it.

If I’d expected Katsuki to get it together in time for the Japanese Nationals, I was deeply disappointed. He bombed spectacularly, and then just fell off the face of the planet for several months. He didn’t even appear in any of the selfies and videos posted by his bubbly Thai friend.

Meanwhile, Victor was being mopey and weird. Everyone kept asking him whether he was planning to retire, and he kept dodging the question. But at the same time he was putting together routines for the next season. I hoped one of them was for me. I kept waiting for him to come through on his promise to choreograph a program for me, but fuck him if he was waiting for me to say something about it first. Not after the way he’d made everything all about him the night of the Grand Prix banquet. No way was I going to go begging for his attention.

It was almost April when Katsuki finally popped up on my feed again, and for once it wasn’t in a post by Chulanont.

“What the fuck is this?” I growled in the empty locker room when I saw the familiar--if slightly heavier--form frozen mid-motion on my screen.

The video had been posted by some fangirl in Japan. I didn’t even bother to translate the title before playing it.

Which it turned out was a good move because otherwise I probably would have broken my phone hurling it across the rink before I even watched the video. It was gross and pathetic. Not to mention totally unoriginal. the way Katsuki idolized Victor. But by the time I realized what I was seeing I was too busy processing what it meant to be more than mildly nauseated.

He was skating Victor’s free skate program. His _prizewinning_ program. If that wasn’t a declaration of intent to come back next season stronger than ever, I didn’t know what was. So clearly Katsuki wasn’t retiring the way the rumors floating around suggested he might be. (Rumors I definitely 100% did not make any effort to hunt down, and wouldn’t have given a shit about even if I had. Shut up.)

So he still had some lame hard-on for Nikiforov. I could deal with that, as long as he brought his A-game when he was on the ice with me. And it was obvious from the way he managed to skate Nikiforov’s program--even while looking pudgy and out of shape--that he’d be bringing his A-game.

Oh, this was _on_.

Now I just had to get Nikiforov to get off his ass to choreograph the program he’d promised me. As stupid and overhyped as Victor was, he was the only one who could help me even _begin_ to approach the sort of musicality Katsuki skated with. If he didn’t come through soon on his own, I’d suck it up and go remind him.

=====

“ _Yakov_! Explain this to me!”

I was so pissed off I was shaking, rubbing the lump on my forehead I’d gotten from slamming my locker door so hard it rebounded and hit me.

I should have known the idiot would punch a hole in my plan. While I was waiting for him to make good on his promise, Nikiforov was packing up his shit and flitting off to Japan to coach Katsuki.

I wished I’d punched that asshole in the face when I had the chance.

It was bad enough he forgot his promise to me, but to leave Russia and go coach my _rival_? That was just fucking disloyal. Nikiforov was _my_ rinkmate, _my_ countryman. _I_ should be his priority, not Katsuki.

Also, Victor would make him a better skater. Of course he would. And that was a good thing, but when he came back from this break, the skating world would be all about their story. The drama. Former coach and student now competing against one another.

Katsuki was mine. _My_ competition. _My_ rival.

 _I_ was the one who saw Katsuki first, saw both his flaws and his potential. While Nikiforov had been wallowing in the adoration of his public, I was the one who had tracked Katsuki down at the Grand Prix and kicked him in the ass to get him moving again. Back when Katsuki had barely been a blip on the international skating scene, I’d singled him out as the one I had to beat.

And _Nikiforov_ was going to get the credit for fixing his skating. No one would know I’d had anything to do with it.

I stormed out of the locker room to demand Yakov do something, but he was just as pissed off as I was. All yelling at him to do something had accomplished was to make him yell back so hard the veins on his bald head started bulging.

I left the rink with a raw throat and the same nagging sense of shame I always had when I got crazy mad and started screaming at people. I don’t know why I did that, especially with Yakov who had given me this opportunity to train at his facility. I’d always had problems with my temper; it had gotten me in trouble at school, and it had gotten even worse since I moved away from my family to train in St. Petersburg.

I didn’t know why I was so angry all the time. I should be grateful for the opportunity to become Russia’s next male figure skating champion, but instead I wanted to tear things to shreds and leave smoking craters in my wake. It made no sense and sometimes it bothered me. Most of the time, though, I was too busy being furious at everything to care.

Yakov had been my mother’s coach, and he’d taken me on when I was ten, not long after the first time my mom came out of remission. He was a hard-assed old bastard, but that was a good thing. There was only so much of my shit he’d put up with before he brought down the hammer. As out of control as I sometimes felt, I wasn’t crazy enough to push him to the point where he decided it was useless trying to work with me. I’d come pretty damn close a couple of times, though.

When I got back to my room in Yakov’s house, I called my mom on Skype. She was pale and fragile-looking, nothing like the radiant girl I saw in pictures all over Grandpa and Yakov’s walls, the one who’d once stood on podiums with Katarina Witt and Kristi Yamaguchi. She was in remission for the third time now, but the multiple rounds of intense chemotherapy had wrecked her immune system and we all lived in fear of the next time a scan showed more tumors.

I swallowed the lump that formed in my throat at the sight of her bony, prematurely aged face. “Mamochka. How are you feeling today?”

“I’m well, Yuratchka. Tired is all. It’s nothing. How did you skate today?”

That was all I needed to begin pouring out the tale of Katsuki’s stupid video and Nikiforov’s subsequent defection. She listened quietly, her green eyes heavy-lidded with exhaustion but still intent.

“It’s not fair!” I complained when I’d finished filling her in. “This is supposed to be _my_ debut season, but they act like I don’t even exist!”

“Well, in many ways you probably don’t to them, yet. They’re focused on themselves and the more seasoned skaters they’re familiar with, the ones they see as true competition. Which is to be expected. It just means you need to make them notice you.”

I thought I’d done that at the Grand Prix, in the restroom and then at the banquet, but I didn’t want to mention any of that. I doubt she’d care for me yelling at other skaters in the lavatory.

Mama frowned. “At any rate, fair or not, you can’t choose who Victor decides to mentor. But it’s badly done that he’s ignoring his promise to you.”

I scowled, in no mood to listen to anything approaching a voice of reason. I’d sound crazy if I tried to explain to her the plans I’d laid out and how I’d decided years ago what Katsuki’s role in my upcoming career was meant to be. They were screwing with my vision, but no one would understand that.

“I tried to tell Yakov to go to Japan and drag Victor back, but he wouldn’t.” An idea struck me, lifting my chin off my chest for the first time that afternoon. “Mat, would you give me the authorization I need to travel to Japan alone? Yakov would never sign off on it, but _someone_ has to go and remind Victor of his promise.”

 _And see just what he and Katsuki are cooking up for next season_.

“You can’t just call him?” Her incredulous chuckle sounded raspy; she was tiring quickly and we’d need to end our conversation soon.

I shook the notion off with a sharp jerk of my head. “I want to make him look me in the face if he tries to go back on his word.”

To argue took more energy than I knew she had, but more than that, I knew from thousands of screaming matches with Yakov that she and I shared more traits than just our talent and eyes. Impulsivity and an excess of pride were her weakness too, Yakov told me over and over. That was why, in addition to her illness, my grandpa had taken such a large role in raising us.

I felt some shame at using her flightiness and irresponsibility against her, but not enough to stop myself. I wasn’t sure if I could stop myself, now that I knew what I had to do. So I went with it. She would understand my need to do this, because she would have done the same. If not in this call, then in the next, I would wear her down and get her permission to travel unaccompanied to another country.

=====

It’s a good thing my mom didn’t think to ask what I planned to do after the long flight and subsequent train trip to Hasetsu were accomplished, because I had no answer for that. I was lucky I didn’t tend to suffer jet lag too badly, but now I needed to track down Nikiforov and Katsuki and confront them. Katsuki had told Victor his parents had a resort or inn of some sort; I’d make him put me up there, since it was his fault I’d had to come all this way.

Finding one person in a strange town where you don’t speak the language is harder than it might seem. I only managed it because Katsuki’s status as a hometown hero, in addition to Victor’s celebrity, meant they were well-known.

Of course, they were at the skating rink. (And no one ever needs to know I didn’t think to look there first. Shut up.)

One of a trio of pint-sized fangirls outside the door of Ice Castle Hatsetsu yelped something in Japanese to me as I dragged my suitcase past them.

“Victor’s inside, isn’t he?” I asked, reining in my irritation. These three could be my little brother and sisters, which meant I couldn’t really let them have it between the eyes the way I would anyone else trying to get in my way. I didn’t even know if they could understand me, since I still wasn’t great at English and wasn’t sure that they spoke it at all. “ _Victor_? I need to see him.”

They gasped in unison. “Yuri Plisetsky!”

I straightened a little, my annoyance fading a little. The fact that they recognized me was nice. Someday, everyone would, but for now it was enough to know my reputation was getting around. They huddled together and began whispering urgently to one another.

After a brief conference, they gestured me to the door, babbling something in Japanese that I hoped meant “Come in!” Finally, I was going to find Nikiforov. Before I could turn back to the door, though, Yuuri Katsuki jogged right past me and collapsed, panting, against the door.

And, without even acknowledging me, began talking in Japanese to the kids.

He hadn’t seen me there. He’d run past me so close he’d almost hit me, but he still hadn’t noticed me standing there.

The next thing I knew, I had my foot on Katsuki’s face as he stared up at me from the floor. 

_See me now, asshole_?

“This is all your fault!” I snarled as he tried to get my shoe away from his glasses. “Apologize!”

He looked so pathetic, babbling and yelping under my grinding sole, that my anger evaporated. I stepped back and slumped against the counter, suddenly tired from my flight. The vending machines around the lobby reminded me that I hadn’t had a real meal in over sixteen hours.

“Why are you here?” Katsuki asked timidly. I didn’t get that. Why wasn’t he ready to punch me after the way I’d just humiliated him? Did he just not get the rules of this arch-rival thing?

“Victor promised he’d choreograph a routine for my senior debut, but then he bailed on me to come here and teach _you_!” My anger came surging back and Katsuki flinched as I stomped forward to get in his face again. “Whatever you’re working on, it’s mine! He promised it to me!”

Katsuki dropped his gaze to the floor. “We--we’re not working on any programs. Not yet.”

“ _What_?” He flinched again as I yelled, his face turning red. “You make him take a whole year off and you’re not working on anything? What the hell are you wasting time on if you’re not training for next season?”

“I had to get back down to a weight I could skate competitively at,” he mumbled.

The mention of his weight led to thoughts of food, which led to waves of queasiness as a result of my stomach gnawing on my ribs. Which pissed me off because I shouldn’t be standing here starving to death while Nikiforov and Katsuki fucked off. At the least, they were supposed to be getting Katsuki’s shit together so he’d be worth competing against when the new season began.

“Why bother?” I scoffed. “You’re just going to end up blubbering in the toilet again like last year. You should quit so Victor can work with real skaters.”

Katsuki’s eyes narrowed, his lips pressing together tightly. Finally! I was getting under his skin. Maybe now he’d start taking things seriously.

Except...that look was starting to seem a lot less like anger than the sort of dismissive indulgence Mila always displayed right before she patted me on the head and told me to stop being such a little shit because I was still in the amateur leagues compared to her little brothers when it came to being an annoying brat. So help me, if he was writing me off as just some kid I was going to...

“Wipe that smirk off your face, pig!” I snapped when the knowing look got too obnoxious.

“I don’t know what Victor promised you, so you’ll have to work that out with him,” Katsuki said, turning away with a negligent shrug and strolling away through the lobby toward the rink. “But if this is your usual attitude, who can blame him for leaving? You know you’d probably find it easier to get people to work with you if you made an effort to be human.”

If he made another robot crack, I was going to stomp his ass into the ground again. But the moment the doors to the rink opened, his attention was 100% gone from me, transfixed on Victor as he glided along the ice. I followed his gaze, clenching my fists when I saw what Victor was doing.

“ _This_ again?”

Katsuki glanced back at me as we came to a stop at the railing. “I don’t recognize it.”

“I do. He started working on it after the Grand Prix final. It’s one of the new programs he was working on for next season. I thought he might be choreographing it for me. If he gives it to you--”

“I doubt that’ll happen.” He hunched forward, his elbows on the rail. “He’s probably already planning his return to skating.”

He spoke as though that were inevitable, as though Victor wasn’t already way past the wrong side of twenty-five. Practically geriatric in terms of competitive skating. Did he seriously not realize how close Victor was to retiring, with or without his little Japanese side project?

I leaned against the rail beside him, shrugging. “He’s already done it all. He wants to surprise people, but he can’t any more. No matter how good what he comes up with is, they just expect it now, because it’s him. There’s no challenge left, nothing to inspire him, and without that, what’s the point?” I tried to give Katsuki a meaningful look, nudging him to put it together, because even if I had to kick his ass every other day he was going to fill that role for me. But his eyes were still on Nikiforov. Of course.

Whatever. Fuck him.

“Well, I can do it, even if he can’t. Give me the right program and I’ll take gold my first season. So Victor’s going to keep his promise, or I’ll make him sorry.” I cupped my hands to my mouth and shouted across the eyes. “Hey! Nikiforov! I want to talk to you!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Yurio's desires and motivations tend to seesaw in this. That inconsistency is deliberate, because he's fifteen and I'm trying to capture how wildly contradictory the moods and impulses of that age can be. And also how astonishingly self-centered the thinking around that age tends to be.

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't beta'ed or and I know my editors would never let me get away with a lot of what I've done here. But that's okay. My professional writing goes through months of rigorous editing, so my fanfic is just going to be for fun and to try to get my words flowing again following a massive case of writer's block.
> 
> I'm not sure yet how long this will be or how often I'll update. I'm pantsing it.
> 
> Feel free to follow me over at [tumblr](http://ameliacgormley.tumblr.com) for YOI, Shadowhunters, and a mix of other stuff.


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